


Veizla

by adarbitrium



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Clueless Vili, Drunk Eivor, Drunken Confessions, Eivor is touchy-feely when she's drunk and that's a fact, F/F, Jealous Randvi, Jealousy, Mentions of Sigurd - Freeform, Mild Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:08:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27865889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adarbitrium/pseuds/adarbitrium
Summary: He’s good-looking and confident, a battle-hardened drengr through and through. And he’s handsome in a boyish, almost vulnerable sort of way. Vili is everything she’s not, or more precisely, everything she wasn’t allowed to be after her father made a deal with the Raven Clan: bold, fierce in battle, someone to distract from near constant distraction and perhaps most importantly, he’s not married to Eivor’s brother.OR;The Raven Clan welcomes Vili, Eivor is drunk and Randvi is seething with jealousy.
Relationships: Eivor/Randvi (Assassin's Creed)
Comments: 19
Kudos: 314





	Veizla

**Author's Note:**

> Veizla: A gathering, a feast, a banquet.

The Raven Clan welcomed Vili Hemmingson with open arms; Sigurd had even insisted on holding a feast in his honor. Feasts in Ravensthorpe were a joyous occasion. A gathering where everyone could have fun and drink and dance. Where one didn’t have to worry about Saxons, order members and the like. A time where they could lower their defenses and unwind. It was always all cheering and drinking and arguing over orlog. Raucous conversations and clamorous laughter, burly, muscular warriors crowding the longhouse.

And so, the day after they had arrived from Snotinghamscire, the village started preparing for the occasion. Arth and his grandfather stayed out fishing on the docks longer than usual, Mayda started working on patching up some tablecloths and banners. Petra had returned from hunting with quite a number rabbits hanging from her belt and a hefty boar fastened onto the back of her horse. The atmosphere of the settlement started to change, everybody could sense how all grew excited and enthusiastic about the upcoming celebration. Randvi could feel it too, but despite the jovial mood of everyone, there was a nagging feeling of bitterness, or more so, dread, that was setting in her very being.

“I saw my old friend Vili on my visit,” Eivor had said the day before. “He has now joined our clan, and will serve as a raider on my ship.”

“I remember the young man,” replied Randvi, because of course she remembered him. “He will make a fine addition to your crew.”

He was just a boy then, all those winters ago, before he set out on the North Sea with his father, doing the only things he knew how to do, drinking and pillaging, often with Eivor and Sigurd in tow. Randvi had heard the stories; sometimes from Eivor, sometimes from Sigurd, sometimes from the people of Fornburg, when the wind carried the news of their mischief faster than the sea carried their ship. She remembers the envy she felt when she wasn’t allowed to join them on their exploits.

 _Envy_ , that’s what she told herself it was.

Randvi shakes her head slightly and forces a small smile across her face as she helps Holger with setting up his decorations. She won’t let those feelings of _envy_ get to her again.

* * *

When the sun finally sets, torches are lighting the entrance of the longhouse and the inner hall is glowing with warmth and amusement. Banners and shields are littering the walls inside. Long tables are laid out with fine, but slightly tattered cloth and colorful leaf garlands, in the far end of the longhouse, the musicians are practicing on their panpipes and drums. The bonfire in the center of the room is ready to be set alight. The women are walking about, placing the steaming dishes on the tables, while a number of warriors are already gathering around the barrels of mead, the chatter of excitement filling up the air as more and more clansmen start to mingle around, filling their plates and taking seats at the tables.

When it seems like everyone who wanted has arrived, the bell is rung and the blare of the horn catches everyone’s attention as they stand to greet the newest member of the Raven Clan. “Vili, son of Hemming Jarl,” Sigurd bellows, eliciting a roar of support and acclaim from all present. Clearing his throat, he begins his speech, recounting the tales of their bygone adventures and praising Vili’s skills as a warrior, saying how valuable of an asset he will be to the clan.

Randvi isn’t listening.

Looking at him now, Vili had grown into a powerful young man in the time he had spent in Snotinghamscire. Someone that had finally understood that he was destined to be a leader one day. He’s standing next to the throne, facing the crowd with Sigurd and Eivor on his side. His long, burgundy robe is almost artistically draped over his back and it makes him fit in with all the colors that the longhouse is decorated with – deep reds and soft yellows, accentuated with gold threads – but still in stark contrast with the blue uniform of the Raven Clan raiders. Below the thick fur covering his shoulders, he’s wearing plate armor of iron with golden inlays running around in opulent patterns. He waves cordially to the members of his new clan, clasping hands with some and bestowing sturdy embraces on others when Sigurd’s speech ends and he makes his way towards the tables. Even after not seeing these people for more than ten winters, Randvi can clearly see that Vili is still very much popular amongst the Raven Clan.

The longhouse is buzzing with humdrum chatter and feverish music. Randvi can hear the sound of wooden benches as they scrape against the floor and cutlery as it bangs against the bowls. The food is delicious, there’s plenty of everything, rich in taste and flavor. Plates of ham, lamb stew and goat’s cheese, jars of solæg, walnut bread, buttermilk cheese and even a decadent pile of exotic fruits, thanks to Yanli’s bargaining prowess.

Randvi stands off to the side of the room, drinking her mead at a steady pace that has her on the second horn in no time. He watches the people mingle, Birna talking to Eydis, most probably discussing upcoming raids, Gudrun telling Holger that it was time to renew the coat of paint on the longship, Mayda dancing with Tove as their drinks spill to the floor. Things are loud, the Hemmingson boy is the center of a circle, telling some apparently gripping story, but Randvi hangs back, quietly watching the crowd as she sits down at the far end of the table. Rowan asks her to dance, but she politely declines.

She keeps glancing at _them_ from the corner of her eye, perhaps seeking some evidence about the rumors the women of Ravensthorpe had told her about. Gudrun said _they_ look good together, Swanburrow swore she saw _them_ sneaking off into the woods. She’s looking for anything, absolutely anything that would tell her that no, contrary to what half of the settlement believes after only a day, _they’re_ not sleeping together. But all her observations had thus far been inconclusive. She could just ask Eivor privately, really, and be done with it, but deep down maybe she doesn’t really want to know the answer.

She knows she has no right to be envious of the man… She swallows. She has no right to be _jealous_ of the man. But it doesn’t change that fact that she is. Eivor sits with Vili the whole night. They talk and laugh and it makes Randvi’s blood boil. She can’t help the way her throat seems to tighten, the thought of Eivor with someone else, someone else’s hand running through her braids, someone else kissing the scar on her face, someone else giving Eivor a reason to stop the clandestine affair going on between them – it makes her insides churn.

It’s not like they had much time to discuss the specifics of their relationship. There’s hasn’t been much time for more than stolen kisses and promises of _later_. And while Randvi thinks (or more accurately, hopes) that she knows where they are going and that _later_ will come one day, when things settle down a bit, she has no reason to get jealous.

Looking at them, Randvi wonders if, perhaps, Eivor has found someone else that’s more worthy of her heart. And if so, she wonders how she can bear the sight of them _together_ and not lose her mind. It’s a foolish thought, for sure. If anything, she should only be happy for the woman who has always meant so much for her. Her happiness is the most important thing, and more than anything, Randvi wished for Eivor to be happy, no matter with whomever she found that happiness with.

Randvi must have been starting too long because Eivor catches her eye, piercing blue eyes staring into her own. She knows Eivor can see the look on her face; she’s always been able to read her like a book, and her eyes dart around the hall in panic, trying to find someone, anyone she can turn to and pretend that she’s enjoying the feast. She notices Octavian pouring himself another horn and hurriedly walks up to him to talk about whatever that would take her mind off of this predicament.

She shakes her head, trying to snap out of it. But the thoughts are unwavering. Eivor doesn’t _belong_ to her. Eivor doesn’t belong to anybody.

But she’s with Randvi. For all intents and purposes, she’s Randvi’s. She gets her body in the darkest hours of the nights and the occasional early morning.

And for a while that was enough.

It still was, before her husband’s return. She could deal with just having Eivor after she came back from a raid, smelling of blood and dirt, full of complaints about the Saxons or the order. Randvi shut her up quickly with kisses, they made love right there by the alliance table and then everything fell into place.

Nowadays it’s really _not_ enough. These days, in the few hours they spend hiding in the woods, after Eivor’s given her her third orgasm of the night, she just wants to take her hand, look into her eyes, and tell her that her whole fucking world revolves around her. But she can’t. Because that’s not what this is. Not for now. Even if they both wanted something more. There’s Sigurd.

That’s the bottom line.

(Even though she barely notices when Sigurd excuses himself from the feast, heading to help Tarben and Swanburrow with looking for Hunwald, who—after several horns of mead chugged during a drinking contest—was convinced that he should fight a wolf to prove himself and ran off into the woods.)

It doesn’t matter how much of her whole being aches for Eivor, for the little things, the smiles, the possibility of mornings and evening spent together, the shared meals. She can’t have it now. The sooner she accepts that, the better off she’ll be. If only Eivor didn’t make accepting that so bloody difficult.

So Randvi takes what she can get.

She curses under her breath. She really shouldn’t be _jealous_. There’s no reason for it. Eivor might have found her happiness. Randvi is happy that Eivor is happy. Really, she is. Eivor was always there for Randvi, she was always by her side, not to say that has changed, but it might be that Randvi won’t be the first person she turns to anymore. It’s not as if Randvi was the only person in Eivor’s life—aside from her brother—before Vili joined the clan, but Randvi was so used to being that person for Eivor and now… That might be the privilege of this imposing warrior.

Randvi spent so much of her life looking out for Eivor, worrying about Eivor, concerning herself with what Eivor is doing, but Randvi has Sigurd and Eivor deserves to fully have someone as well. She grimaces when she sees the way Vili has his hand resting on Eivor’s shoulder is the exact way Randvi touches her when she just _craves_ contact, but knows others can see. It’s not an overtly intimate gesture, but his hand lingers longer for it to be just a friendly pat on the back.

“Randvi? Are you even listening to me?”

She blushes hotly at being found out. “I’m sorry, Octavian. What were you saying?”

Octavian goes on and rambles endlessly about the newest additions to his collection of artifacts and the history of the Holy Roman Empire and their feasting customs, but Randvi, quite simply, couldn’t care less about that in this very moment. She sees green, it’s s an utterly _stupid_ reaction. Of course it is. Eivor doesn’t owe her anything. It’s simple as that. She has no right to feel scorching jealousy now that Eivor’s leaning close to whisper in Vili’s ear, that he’s peering down at her in turn with a smirk that he wears so damn well.

There are more stares from the crowd as well, and a couple of people have noticeably started whispering about them. It was rare to see Eivor so carefree and cheerful. Her natural state being typically more stoic. She was… beautiful to look at. Sometimes Randvi’s chest hurt when she saw how beautiful the other woman was. This was one of those time. (She really should tell her that more often.) They look good together, standing side by side, the light of the torches washing over them, bathing the two in golden hues. It makes her heart ache, because nothing she has to offer can ever compare to that and when Vili nonchalantly touches Eivor’s arm once again, Randvi has to turn away, unable to take in any more of the sight.

Vili, he’s easy, in an organic, conspicuous way. He’s good for battle, for diplomacy, for sex.

He’s good-looking and confident, a battle-hardened drengr through and through. And he’s handsome in a boyish, almost vulnerable sort of way. Vili is everything she’s not, or more precisely, everything she wasn’t allowed to be after her father made a deal with the Raven Clan: bold, fierce in battle, someone to distract from near constant distraction and perhaps most importantly, he’s not married to Eivor’s brother.

* * *

The feast continues well into the night, until even the most bottomless warriors are sated. The raiders loll in their seats, surrounded by bones, spills, stains and other rubble that won’t be cleaned up for days. In the fire-pit, the boar had been pillaged down to its bones, which blackened slowly in the flames.

Randvi is lost in her thoughts when Vili appears and plonks himself down in the vacant space across her. Eivor follows shortly and squeezes in between her and the clearly sloshed warrior on her left, almost pushing the robust man off his seat. She passes her a freshly filled jar of mead, a smile tugging on the corner of her mouth and Randvi almost forgets why she is feeling so damn annoyed.

“Randvi, it’s been a while,” the man greets, having a swig of his mead. Randvi snaps to attention immediately, sympathetic smile back in place. “Eivor here has told me quite a bit about how you were running things here while Sigurd was... away.”

Randvi opens her mouth to answer when she feels Eivor’s hand place itself quite deliberately on her thigh under the table. She side-eyes her briefly, wondering if the mead has finally caused the drengr to lose every bit of her common sense.

“Has she?” she asks Vili while shooting the blonde on her left a hard look. Eivor’s not looking at her though; she’s staring down at her own jug and munching on a piece of walnut bread as if she doesn’t have a care in the world.

“I have,” Eivor says after a beat of silence, but Randvi barely hears what she says next because suddenly, the hand slips further, over her leg and to her inner thigh. She suddenly feels very warm and increasingly _stupid_. Unconsciously and to her extant horror, she shifts her body closer to her hand, scooting in her seat until Eivor’s calloused palm is flat on her center over the fabric of her breeches.

“I always knew you would be a good match for Sigurd, keeping that oafish head of his in check,” he says and offers a smile again. Randvi smiles a horribly fake one in return. She’s too busy fighting the strong urge to roll her hips against Eivor’s hand to care. “Great at diplomacy, but not afraid to pick up the axe if needed.” Eivor’s palm suddenly moves, grinding down straight into her heat. She can’t help but make a little gasping sound, but at the last second she manages to disguise it as a cough, reaching for her mead with a slightly trembling hand. If the drengr keeps this up and she can’t control it, this feast will get horribly awkward, not to mention disastrous very fast.

And yet, she doesn’t look at Eivor. Doesn’t tell her to stop.

Vili goes on reminiscing about all time they’ve spent together in Norway, teasing Eivor about the way he taught her to fight and that one night when he had to carry her home half-naked after a mead and vomit filled night. Then he starts talking about all things they’ve been through in Snotinghamscire. He’s matured into a pleasant man, Randvi has to give him that. Meanwhile, Eivor has totally removed her hand from Randvi and now that the conversation turned to other topics, she glares daggers at her profiles. Really? She’s just going to leave her all hot and bothered?

By the time they finish trading stories, the feast is ending but Randvi can still hear the sounds of laughter and merriment drifting around outside the longhouse. Most have already left, except for the three of them and a few raiders who were too bashed to get up, some of them already snoring loudly. Randvi can feel that Eivor’s close to passing out herself, now half-leaning on her shoulder, occasionally mumbling something, trying to add to the conversation, but failing miserably when the words come out slurred and mispronounced. Randvi tries to school her expression and blames the blush on her cheeks on the mead.

Eivor is sliding closer to her on the seat, if that’s even possible, and sneaks her hand back onto her thigh, rubbing it lightly the same way she had been before, though this time instead of moving her hand upward, her fingers start to gently play with her belt.

“Alright, Wolf-Kissed, come, time for you to get up,” Randvi says, feeling the need to put a stop to this before the whole thing backfires. She feels the weight of the mighty drengr slacken against her, her fingers withdrawing from fiddling with her breeches. She grabs one of Eivor’s shoulders, her other hand still supporting the warrior’s back as she tries to help the poor woman back into an upright position. It takes a few seconds, Eivor is dazedly looking around and protesting that it’s too early for her to get up, but Randvi eventually manages to haul her back into a sitting position.

“Mmm,” she hums. “You’re so soft and warm,” Eivor remarks, her words slurred and voice sultry as she snuggles deeper into Randvi’s arms, wrapping her own around her torso. Vili is literally choking with laughter. Randvi can’t hide the horrified expression that takes hold of her face. Thankfully, she didn’t say something much more incriminating.

“At least she’s not half-naked now,” the man remarks with a howl.

Randvi hopes, _prays_ to the gods that he won’t remember any of this in the morning. She drags Eivor to her feet and bids farewell to Vili as he himself starts to stumble his way out of the longhouse.

They maneuver around the tables and the passed out men on the floor. Eivor mumbles something Randvi can’t quite catch. Too drunk to speak more than a few words at once, let alone walk in a straight line. She falters with almost every step, but Randvi is there to catch her, keeping one arm around Eivor’s waist and slinging one of hers around her neck to keep her standing, their height difference making it slightly more convenient. “You’re…”—a hiccup—“…jealous,” Eivor tries again as she half smirks, half makes a face trying not vomit.

Randvi decides to ignore it.

When they make it to her room, Eivor immediately staggers to her bed and flops down on it with a groan. Randvi sighs and moves over to where she’s lying, lowering herself to her knees next to the bed, then reaching for Eivor’s boots and begins to unbuckle the clamps that secure it. She works quickly but carefully and when she steps back a few minutes later, Eivor is lying in nothing but her undertunic with her legs on the bed and her head on the pillow.

In the eerie quite of the longhouse, Randvi’s mind is screaming at her to leave. Just turn around and go back to her bedchamber. It’s well past _ótta_ , nobody is awake, either passed out drunk or asleep in their respective lodgings. But an increasingly large part of her just can’t bring herself to leave Eivor alone.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, startling Randvi. The blonde’s eyes had been closed the whole time Randvi worked and she had assumed that she had finally passed out.

“You’re welcome,” she grumbles in reply and stares as Eivor for a few seconds, then releases and aggravated huff and mutters, “I’m going to bed.”

“Wait,” Eivor says, her hand immediately shooting out to grope for Randvi’s wrist, which she lets her hold despite her still slightly irritable demeanor.

Eivor is looking at her curiously. Maybe if it was any other night, Eivor could have fooled her. But in this case, right here and right now, Randvi can see something strangely close to pain hidden behind her clouded eyes. It doesn’t make sense, but a lot of things don’t make sense when it comes to Eivor Wolf-Kissed.

“Stay with me. For a little,” Eivor requests, starting up at Randvi with the biggest, bluest, most hopeful eyes Randvi had ever seen on someone.

She closes her eyes and breathes deeply. It would be so easy to just give Eivor what she wants, to just lay down and allow her to touch her and kiss her. But she can’t. Sigurd could be back any moment. Anybody could walk in the longhouse and see them. Randvi still can’t deny the fact that a large part of her aches for it to happen. It would be so easy… and so wrong and plain _reckless_.

“You’re drunk,” Randvi declares. “You’re not thinking clearly.”

“I am drunk,” Eivor acknowledges with a chuckle. “But I’m not blind. You’re—”

“I- I’m not…” Randvi stammers, heart pounding in her chest.

“Not what?” Eivor whispers with a teasing lilt in her voice, a smirk playing on her lips.

“Jealous.”

“Really? You could have fooled me there, Randvi.” She snorts. “So, I’m guessing you also weren’t thinking about how you wanted to kiss me all night and how you just want to kiss me right now?” Eivor mumbles, eyes flickering to her mouth.

Gods damn her.

“If I kiss you, will you shut up?” Randvi growls, but there’s a playfulness in her tone that’s trying to burst to the surface.

Eivor looks up at her and raises one eyebrow. “Only if you admit that you were jealous.”

Randvi grits her teeth and shuts her eyes so tightly that her nose scrunches up. “Fine, _fine_ ,” she says after rolling her eyes. “I was _jealous_. Are you happy now, Wolf-Kissed?”

Eivor grins and blows out the single torch that’s still burning next to her bed before she pulls her into her arms, the room now shrouded in darkness. “Oh, very,” she mutters against her mouth before capturing her lips in a quick, but passionate kiss.

A few long moments pass before any of them speaks. The thrill caused by the possibility of being caught in this compromising situation makes Randvi’s heart thump faster and louder, but she can still hear Eivor’s heavy, exhausted and mead-fueled breathing fill the room.

“He asked about it,” Eivor says as she sinks back into the fur covers on her bed. Randvi doesn’t reply, she sits on the side of the bed and the questioning look on her face is enough for the groggy drengr to continue. “If I thought…” She inhales a deep breath that turns into a yawn, “…we could have been something more if he had not left.” With her sight adjusting to the dark, Randvi can see that Eivor’s eyes are still hazy, but there’s a certain kind of sincerity in them now. “I told him no,” she reaches out and squeezes Randvi’s hand. “My heart is yours. Don’t you ever doubt that,” she adds softly, struggling to keep her eyes open but desperately wanting the words to come out. “And if I have to wait until Ragnarök to have you, I will.”

“You have me,” Randvi whispers into the darkness.

But the Wolf-Kissed is already asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> So, watch me give [norse](https://www.vikingsofbjornstad.com/Old_Norse_Dictionary_E2N.shtm) words as titles and find a way to yeet Sigurd out of the situation in every single fic. 
> 
> If you noticed any typos, NO YOU DIDN'T.
> 
> As always, feel free to scream at me on [Tumblr](http://valhalla-s.tumblr.com/).


End file.
